


Definitely Not A Local

by AceOfShadows



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alcohol, And Gondorians do not barter, Fluff Fic, Fourth Age fic, Gen, Humour, elven antics, in which Elves have no concept of currency
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-07
Updated: 2018-05-07
Packaged: 2019-05-03 17:22:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14573862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AceOfShadows/pseuds/AceOfShadows
Summary: In Minas Tirith, a bored barkeep tends a quiet tavern, and gains an eventful afternoon when he is visited by some unexpected (and unusual) patrons. Unfortunately for him, Legolas has no idea how mortal currency works.(From here on out, Gimli will pay for their ale, thank you)





	Definitely Not A Local

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mellowly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mellowly/gifts).



The wood of the bar was polished oak, deep brown and richly whorled, and three generations old - though the actual inn itself was five generations. There was no older, nor finer tavern in Minas Tirith than the Watchful Peak, no matter what those fools at the Black Blossom might think.

The barkeeper huffed and scrubbed at a stain on the bar a little more forcefully than was strictly necessary. Well, in fairness, perhaps the Black Blossom might have a shade more clientele, and perhaps they had better lanterns, and _maybe_ they didn’t have to replace their stools ever other week because the same drunken louts started brawls over the same game of Six Kings, but the Watchful Peak had _history,_ dammit! Five generations of serving the finest ales than coin could fetch and the best food this side of the Anduin; he would not let some noble fops drive him out of business!

“Excuse me?” A voice broke through his thoughts, soft and lilting, like no voice he had ever heard nor dreamt of before. The barkeep almost wrenched his neck looking up so fast from his furious scrubbing - but the person before him was most certainly _not_ one of his regular customers. He could not rightly say if the being was man or woman, but they were most certainly not a Man - there was too much…wrong with that fair smiling face for them to be any kind of mortal Man.

He might never have seen one up close before, but by his ancestors, he was reasonably certain that this was an Elf. An Elf. In his tavern. Ancestors save him.

The Elf smiled at him gently, almost apologetically. “Pardon my intrusion, but I wish to… _purchase_ some ale.” They said it with an odd hesitance, placing emphasis in all the wrong places, and then glanced over their shoulder. The barkeep followed their gaze to one of his previously-unoccupied tables, which was now the setting for the oddest company to have ever graced the Watchful Peak. A dwarf was dragging over more stools to the table, where already two Halflings (at least he assumed they were Halflings, certainly they did not sound like children) were already seated, bantering noisily in bright cheerful voices.

The barkeep looked back to the Elf, who was watching him again with polite patience. The barkeep started, unnerved by the strangeness of those eyes.

“Ale. Yes,” he said, hastily fetching mugs to cover his unease. He took it all back - he wanted no strangers in his tavern! Not this kind at least; why could he not get some nice Rohirric lads to serve instead?

“Five please,” the Elf said, oblivious to the barkeep’s distress. “Our last companion will be joining us shortly.”

The barkeep made a low distressed noise that he hoped the Elf had not heard - or at least would pretend they had not heard. When five frothing mugs of his finest ale were set out on the bar, the Elf frowned, as if deep in thought and then made a noise of surprise.

“ _Ai_ , yes, yes,” the Elf laughed. “I must…give you something for these, of course.” They began hastily patting down their deep green tunic, pulling small objects out of pockets and belt pouches and sometimes from seemingly nowhere at all. Within moments, his bar was littered with some dried flowers, a few seeds, a carving of a dragon made from a wood the barkeep could not rightly identify, three arrowheads (one of which was black and strange), an egg that might have been a sparrow’s (or possibly a finch egg? He wasn’t sure) and a copper bracelet.

The barkeep, in all honesty, had no idea what to say. The Elf did not say anything either, looking rather puzzled.

“For Durin’s sake, Legolas!” The Dwarf barked from the table, cutting through the noise of the tavern. “Just give the man some coin and let us start drinking already!”

The Elf, Legolas, suddenly brightened, like clouds parting before the sun. “Coin! Of course; I forgot, how foolish of me.” He hastily scooped up all that he had previously laid out on the bar, settling them back into pockets and pouches before the stunned barkeep could blink. “I know I have some coin in here somewhere… _aha!_ ”

With a flourish, the Elf laid a coin down on the bar and lifted all five mugs at once, leaving the barkeep spluttering in shock. Surely he would drop one, or spill it, and then there would be so much to clean— but Legolas gave him a knowing smile (with teeth as neat and perfect as a king’s tomb) and spirited the mugs over to their table without another word, or spilling so much as a drop.

The barkeep looked down at the coin the Elf had left him and felt his heart jump in shock. There was…it was surely some kind of mistake? Pressed neatly against the rich oak wood glittered a single gold coin, Dwarven minted and octagonal, embossed with a Dwarven rune. The rune gleamed against the bright metal, plain as day to anyone with the wit to read it.

“Ex-excuse me?” He looked up at the strange party, hardly believing that he had even opened his mouth to argue this. “I think perhaps…”

“Oh?” Legolas frowned. “Did I not pay enough?”

The barkeep looked down at the coin again. “No, my lord. This is _more_ than enough.”

The dwarf gave a snort. “Legolas, I fear you might have overpaid.”

Legolas shrugged, and waved an elegant hand. “Dwarven nonsense.” There was a wicked teasing gleam in his eye, however, as he spoke, but the barkeep saw none of it.

The two set to arguing as the barkeep reluctantly slid the golden coin over to him. Well. It wasn’t as if the Elf hadn’t _known_ what he was handing over. He certainly did not seem to care for getting any change either.

The barkeep ran his thumb over the Dwarven rune, tracing its shape and committing it to memory. Seven coppers to a silver. Twelve silvers to a gold. Every Gondorian child knew that much - but this…this was _not_ a single gold coin. The Dwarves used their runes to mark gold coins of various value above a single gold piece - this one, in particular, was worth _twenty_ gold coins.

Five mugs of ale, comparatively, cost about four silver. Three if the barkeep liked you, six if he didn’t.

 _May I never complain about strangers in my tavern again,_ he thought fervently, sliding the coin into his pocket. They could have free drinks for the night. And hopefully, they would never decide to go to the Black Blossom.

After all, how many taverns in Minas Tirith could boast the patronage of an Elf?

**Author's Note:**

> Mellowly and I had the same notion to write this fic, so you should all check out their counterpart fic: Coins and Trinkets. It's fantastic!


End file.
